


Summit of Apocrypha

by BadKnight



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadKnight/pseuds/BadKnight
Summary: A fictional account of the last battle of the Dragonborn DLC, based on how I role-played my character. Certain mods may be referenced as in-setting concepts to preserve coherence. Not beta-read, still a WIP.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! This is my first time posting here, and I'm looking to improve. C&C greatly appreciated!

A miasma of rotten paper, dead fish, and the inky, tentacle-laden ocean expanse below permeates the air even on Apocrypha’s tallest tower. The air, too, was more soaked than it was humid, even standing atop a tower of hardened flesh and leather bindings. At such a height, however, the full guttural chorus of Apocrypha’s denizens competed with the odor for the attention of the living. 

Between the warring plagues, the Last Dragonborn rides atop a sleek, deep navy dragon to her destined confrontation with the First Dragonborn, and tries to process these new sensations. She hadn’t fully adjusted to her new body, especially considering her unique relationship with it. She intended to challenge Miraak despite this, as his conquest of Solstheim was inexcusable. Her mount touches down on the highest tower either of them could see, and soon the First faced the Last.

“Sahrotaar, are you so easily swayed,” the First calls out, derision dripping from his voice. He knows Sahrotaar is no more in control of its actions now than it was when he commanded it but moments ago. Miraak, first to bear the title Dragonborn, the millennia-old would-be usurper of the dragons now stands at the precipice of his return. The wind whips past his gold-accented black robes, pitch-black condensation sticking to iron and dragonbone pauldrons atop his shoulders. Magic crackles from his fingertips and his Voice stirs in his throat. Once he absorbs the Last Dragonborn’s soul and the dragon souls within, his power will be enough to break his servitude to Hermaeus Mora and return to Solstheim to conquer it and Tamriel. He need only break the upstart Dragonborn now approaching the pool of sludge between them. “No. Not yet. We should greet our guest first.”

As Miraak approaches the dais at the center of the tower, he sizes up the Last Dragonborn. She bears a colossal greataxe and bow on her back, both hewn from the bones of fallen dragons and encircled by thin layers of green, red, and purple energy. Similar lights dance across her thick scale armor, which conceals all but her face hardened nordic face. The way the light catches the armor grabs Miraak’s attention, something about it seems unusual to him. In a bid for time, he attempts to distract his opponent with a monologue about his goals.

“And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended. He is a fickle master, you know. But now I will be free of him. My time in Apocrypha is over. You are here in your full power, and thus subject to my full power. You will die. And with the power of your soul, I will return to Solstheim and be master of my own fate once again.”

As he speaks, Miraak inspects the Last Dragonborn’s armor once more from behind his old priest’s mask. The unmistakable ebony sheen across her dragon scale armor forces ancient memories to the First Dragonborn’s mind: the World Eater, Alduin. In his stay in Apocrypha, Miraak had learned the nature of Alduin’s disappearance, and had patiently waited for its return. It seems the burden he knew would fall to him had already come to pass, and for that he would have to thank the Last Dragonborn. That could wait for another time, however, as his observation revealed something else about his fated foe.

Something seemed off about the Last Dragonborn’s… everything. Her face was marred by crinkles and harsh features, far sharper than even the highest-born of elves. He knew of her inheritance to the Vampires, those ancient dominators who had once threatened him even in the age of dragons, but something else seemed amiss. Her body rarely shifted, each movement only as far as necessary, and each step planned as though rehearsed hundreds of times. Her gaze locked with his, and he knew she could see his eyes behind the mask. She could see that his speech was to stall for time, to complete an analysis. She knew this, and permitted it anyway in spite of the advantage it granted him. There was not an ounce of fear in the Last Dragonborn from head to toe.

His tangent concluded, Miraak tensed his body preparing for the first move to be made in the engagement. The Last Dragonborn’s face creaks into a smile, as she speaks in a deep guttural voice, “A puppet tyrant is unfit to rule.” She readies a conjuration spell in each hand and steels herself for battle. Miraak shouts, enveloping his body in the armor of dragons, and the Last Dragonborn does the same. The battle for the fate of the Solstheim -- for all of Tamriel -- begins.


	2. Chapter 2

The Last Dragonborn outstretches her hands, fingertips playing with the bounds of Oblivion as she tears the barrier between them asunder. Two otherworldly purple vortexes rip open, shredding the surrounding air. From one, an ash-skinned humanoid figure emerges, wearing jagged jet-black armor. The dremora steps forward, drawing an ancient greatsword constructed and refined for a single purpose: slaughter. From the other portal, hunks of stone and thick clouds coalesce into the approximation of a figure. Lightning skips from stone to stone as the storm atronach’s form adjusts itself to the unusual atmosphere of Apocrypha. The Last Dragonborn gestures silently to Miraak, and the dremora bellows a discordant warcry as it charges.

Miraak sees the attack coming, bracing himself for the impact. The dremora’s blade meets his own, its slimy green mass grinding against the daedric steel. He pushes back, willing his physical form to exert more force than it has since he walked the mortal realms, slowly reaching equilibrium with the dremora. Rather than seizing the obvious advantage, however, the dremora lord maintains the position of both their blades. Miraak ponders this for a moment, then glances to his true foe to see her first attack begin.

The atronach thrusts out a storm-laden fist, hurling a storm-laden cloud towards the stalemate at blinding speeds. At the last moment before it strikes, Miraak lets out a mighty shout which throws both the dremora and the lightning cloud high into the darkened sky. The immediate threat gone, he charges forward and plunges his blade into the body of the atronach. The hairs on his hands stand on end this close to the embodiment of the storm, he can feel its thunder from the vibrations in his sword. He tears the blade outward laterally, bisecting the monster in a single stroke before facing the unguarded Dragonborn. An explosive blast then interrupts Miraak’s battle calculations, knocking him several yards backwards.

Slowly recovering, Miraak realizes the summoned monsters were only meant to be distractions while she charged a more potent spell. If she was a competent caster, he would need to rob her of that power. He sheathes his sword, that tentacle-riddled reminder of his soon-to-be-former servitude to Hermaeus Mora, and refocuses his magicka into a single powerful beam of electricity directed at her heart. The energy streaks through the air, instantly closing the distance and finding its mark as she silently awaits her opponent’s next move. She staggers as it connects, and its force pushes her back several feet. Both Dragonborn new stand at opposite ends of the tower.

Arcane energy streaks from their fingertips like shields in front of them, as both cast a ward in one hand and ready another spell in the other. Miraak fires a stream of lightning at the Last Dragonborn, his last obstacle on this long road to conquest. The Last Dragonborn unleashes a continuous stream of explosive fireballs, thinking along much the same lines. Their spells meet in the middle, releasing shockwave after shockwave with force enough to stagger both. Their concentrations each remain firm, however, and their struggle of magick against magick continues. Each blast stirs up a cloud of energized dust until it engulfs the tower upon which they stand.

The whole of Apocrypha shakes against the weight of their power. All eyes are now on the destined showdown, from the lowliest Seeker in Apocrypha’s depths to Miraak’s enslaved dragons circling overhead. The high priest of Miraak, enjoying a fine dinner after a long day of continued work on his master’s temple, collapses with a splitting headache. Archmage Savos Aren, enjoying a meal of his own in Sovngarde, wonders why his drink is shaking. Aren’s successor, the former archmage of Winterhold, feels something amiss as he hangs limply from his bindings atop the mountains of the Reach. Though he knows neither what nor why, he rightly suspects who is responsible.


End file.
